They're good things, sweet things, though Derrica likes feeling Loxley's mouth against her skin almost more than she likes hearing this kind of strained praise. But how satisfying is it, to know Loxley's capability for saying pretty things has been winnowed down in the course of their time together. It's pleasant, admiring the effect she's had.

And it staves off the urge to hush him, to draw his mouth up to her to kiss him quiet. She'd promised him, after all, to try to revel in such sweet things. It should be impossible for her to flush any warmer than she already is, but it feels as if his words deepen the heat in her face just as surely as they draw a hitching breath from her.

"I want," she begins, and then hesitates. Not for lack of specific things, but because she wants so many things, and it is hard to consider just one to put to him. Loxley's mouth is hot at her throat and the unsteadiness of his voice sings through her, and her hand opens and closes in his hair, at the nape of his neck, holding him close against her.

It's a particular kind of strain to maintain this pace now. But Derrica wants—

"I want to hear you say things like that. I want this to be good for you," are surely two easy things. She turns her head to kiss his temple, as she continues, "And I want to keep you here, because you're so lovely this way. Can you hold on for me? Just a little bit longer?"